King of the Dying Light

Upon the rock where shadows fall,

He stands alone, yet towers all,

With eyes like fire and breath so deep,

He guards the dusk while others sleep.

The wind, it whispers through his mane,

A crown of dusk, a silent reign.

His stare — a storm not yet begun,

A quiet hymn to setting sun.

Beneath the skies of molten gold,

He carves a tale, both fierce and bold.

No need for roars to stake his claim,

His silence screams the lion’s name.

Each muscle coiled in perfect grace,

No falter in his stance or pace.

A monarch not by blood or birth,

But by the weight he gives the earth.

The twilight paints him in its hue,

A god of flame in flesh and view.

And though the night begins to rise,

There burns the sun within his eyes.

So gaze upon this living flame,

Untamed by man, untouched by shame.

The lion waits—his time is near,

When even stars will pause in fear.